Freud's idea of slapstick is taking the root out of an umbrella and dipping it in drain water, comical, palsied gesturing until he's tired, sweater awry, eyes
plexiglass + frenzied giggling subsequently fogging up all over them,
disgusting
DOCTOR TO PATIENT -
unravel hazardously, or whatever else you
find pertinent to the Alien Rotation
subconscious joke chokes,
respirator offering one bright-turning-fusty
atmospheric detail
How does he think the shoelace got in the incinerator?
He's wrong – it's not nearly as profound as that –
clumsiness reconstituted as the temporal dragging; blue
current jumping across patient's braces, them plumbing patient's own
tongue, dry-mouthed meat hours later poly-crumbed slaughterhouse sexy
He knows no complex object that didn't over time degenerate into simple marsh
diffusion of scurvy-nails, performing every millionth, horrible circus trick fatally
preventing indignity: for the stuck, ghost-tiny synapse, either goaded or tamed,
mission impossible II
